


A Happy Bottom

by dracoqueen22



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: BDSM themes, Blindfolds, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Ficlet Series, Fingering, Frag Machine, Gags, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Submission, Valentines BDSM fics, Verbal Domination, chain bondage, facesitting, gagging, overload denial, overload inhibitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-03-20 12:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3649764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He may be the one on his knees, legs spread, and at their mercy. But Rodimus knows who really has the power here, and it's not the one holding his leash. (AKA, Rodimus frags the Lost Light. Or at least the ones that want to anyway)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ratchet

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [A Happy Bottom (中文版)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3986587) by [interburstgap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/interburstgap/pseuds/interburstgap)



> So this is the last of my Valentines BDSM series though it's not quite complete. I'm going to be updating this one periodically as I run through the gamut of sexy mechs (and femmes? Nautica?) to smut up with Rodimus. So yeah. Series of smuts. Coming your way. Eventually. For now, we have Ratchet and Megatron. And in case it wasn't obvious, these are all NSFW.

It was the only time Rodimus was silent, Ratchet reflected.   
  
Then again, the gag and vocalizer disruptor might have had something to do with it.   
  
Ratchet chuckled to himself.   
  
Irritant though his captain might be, the fragger was ridiculously attractive. Rodimus was aware of it, too. Unfortunately.   
  
But!  
  
This made it all worth it.   
  
Knuckles deep in a dripping valve, clutching calipers trying to pull all three fingers deeper. Rodimus bound at wrists and ankles, spreadeagle and immobile. His optics blazing blue fire, his field screaming desperation. His hips twitching in place.   
  
He was probably begging across the comms but Ratchet had blocked him.   
  
Even better?   
  
Ratchet had been given full permissions. Rodimus was absolutely certain he could take anything but just in case, he had an emergency line to Ultra Magnus. Not that Ratchet expected he'd use it. By now, Ratchet was more than adept at reading Rodimus' tells.   
  
“You're a mess,” Ratchet said as lubricant slopped over his wrist and dripped onto the berth beneath Rodimus, joining the pool already present.   
  
Ratchet's expression was one of disinterest but it took all of his focus to keep his spike locked away.   
  
For now.   
  
Rodimus' mouth was proving to be quite the temptation.   
  
The scent of hot metal got stronger. Ratchet added a fourth finger and considered how much more effort it would take before four fingers could make a fist. He wondered if Rodimus would protest.   
  
Time to test the waters.   
  
“You're a mess,” Ratchet repeated, and he crooked his index finger, rubbing a deepset node. “I'll bet if I added my thumb, you'd barely feel it.”   
  
Rodimus' hips bucked. His engines revved. There was a distinct _thunk_ as his spike knocked against his locked panel. There would be time to play with that later.   
  
Ratchet smirked, abandoning his nonchalance.   
  
He stroked that deep node again and was rewarded with a flare of a charged energy field. Rodimus' lust almost bowled him over.   
  
“You approve,” Ratchet observed with a tilt of his helm. “You're a hungry little fragtoy, aren’t you?”   
  
Rodimus' squirming did not dispute Ratchet's claim. If anything, it only encouraged him.   
  
Ratchet leaned over Rodimus, fingers buried deep, teasing the tip of his thumb around Rodimus' stretched rim. He flicked the external node, making Rodimus buck. He ex-vented across Rodimus' chestplate and traced the flame decal with his glossa.   
  
Rodimus trembled.   
  
Ratchet licked his lips. “Or maybe,” he purred. “Maybe fingers aren't enough. Maybe I ought to slide my whole fist into you?”   
  
Rodimus seized beneath him, frame thrashing in the cuffs as static danced like lightning over his plating. His valve clamped down hard on Ratchet's fingers, trapping them in place. His vents wheezed. His optics blazed, oral lubricant seeping out from around the gag.   
  
Smug, Ratchet dropped a kiss on Rodimus' autobrand. Rodimus radiated heat, his whole frame clattering with the echoes of his overload. Ratchet's hand was soaked in lubricant, he could feel it seeping into the tiniest mechanisms of his fingers.   
  
Well, that answered that. They would have to discuss fisting later since Rodimus seemed so inclined.   
  
“Hedonist,” Ratchet murmured and he withdrew his hand, contemplating the soaked digits.   
  
Rodimus eyed the dripping lubricant as though it was engex.   
  
Ratchet grinned.   
  
Time to remove the gag for both of their sakes. 

-END-


	2. Megatron

He lounged in the chair as though it were a throne. For the sake of the game today, it was. The throne from which he commanded his subject to obey him.   
  
He parted his thighs, dragged his fingers down the inside plating, exciting the sensors that led a fine path toward his valve. His panel remained closed and he tapped two fingers over it, tracing the hot metal.   
  
Blue optics watched him with an intensity that all but burned. Megatron pushed his knees further apart, exposing himself to his observer and teased the gaps in his plating, pushing his thick fingers into seams to flit over the cables beneath.   
  
His subject whimpered.   
  
Megatron smirked and tilted his helm. The hand not occupied with teasing himself lifted and crooked a finger.   
  
“Come here,” he ordered.   
  
And Rodimus came to him, on hands and knees, spike leaving splatters of pre-transfluid in his wake. Megatron would have to make him clean those later, with his glossa if need be. Ultra Magnus would not approve of such a mess, now would he?  
  
Rodimus rose on his knees, leaned closer, reaching with his hands, but Megatron put up his own, engine growling a warning.   
  
“No hands,” he said. “Mouth only.”   
  
Frustration flicked across Rodimus' face but it was gone as quickly as it arrived. Patience had never been his strong suit and he hated the restraint as much as he enjoyed Megatron forcing him to employ it.   
  
Megatron swallowed down the chuckle and gestured for Rodimus to continue.   
  
His subject crossed his hands behind his back, grasping his own wrists and then tilted forward, ever so carefully pressing a kiss to the inside of Megatron's knee. The brush of lip components over armor barely registered, but it sent a shock of arousal through Megatron nonetheless.  
  
Megatron's fingers dug deeper into his seams, pressing harder on his cables, drawing bursts of pain. But his other hand rested on Rodimus' helm, coaxing that delectable mouth closer to his array.   
  
“Put that mouth to its best use,” Megatron growled.   
  
Blue optics flashed at him, half-defiant and half-amused. But in this, at least, Rodimus obeyed.   
  
His glossa traced a seam, gliding inward toward Megatron's array. His ex-vents were wet heat that only notched the anticipation higher. Rodimus' shoulders scraped Megatron's knees, prompting him to make more room, until he reached the limits of his flexibility.   
  
Rodimus inched closer until Megatron's hand was more hindrance than help and he withdrew his fingers from his seams, letting Rodimus' glossa replace them. Megatron rumbled his approval the moment Rodimus placed the first kiss against his panel. Beneath it, his valve was slick and ready, and the second flick of Rodimus' glossa was enough to prompt it to slide aside.   
  
Megatron's hand on Rodimus' helm became less guiding and more stroking. He couldn't quite hide the approval from his tone.   
  
“You're conducting yourself properly today,” Megatron observed as the tip of Rodimus' glossa traced the pleated rim of his valve. “Such behavior should be rewarded.”  
  
Rodimus didn't speak. To do so would have violated the command he'd been given earlier. But he pressed a delicate kiss to Megatron's anterior node, a bare brush that caused warmth to pool in Megatron's array.   
  
Fragging tease.   
  
And then his glossa pushed deeper, tasting the first ring of sensors in Megatron's valve.   
  
Megatron shivered, shuttering his optics to enjoy the sensation alone.   
  
Yes. A reward should be forthcoming indeed.

****


	3. Optimus Prime

His fingers wrapped around the chains, taking some of the weight off his wrists. His knees trembled. His valve cycled, forcing drips of lubricant down onto the spike within inches of piercing him. He could feel the heat of the mech beneath him, the rumble of the berth beneath his knees.   
  
He couldn't see his partner, but there was no mistaking that field. There was no mech who felt like this, one who simultaneously left Rodimus feeling both in awe and inadequate. It had taken time to get to this point, where he could wait here, on the cusp of pleasure, and not feel as if he ought to surrender because he was supposed to.   
  
The hands on his hips held him in place, fingers gripping, just strong enough to give warning to his armor. They were so much larger, cradling him and Rodimus moaned. He hadn't been told to keep silent. Or still.   
  
He wriggled.   
  
The dark chuckle wrapped around his audials, provoking another shiver.   
  
“You have no patience,” Optimus murmured.   
  
“Never been my strong suit,” Rodimus agreed and he tried to rock down, catching the tip of Optimus' spike against the rim of his valve before it was gone again. A frustrated cry escaped him.   
  
Optimus chuckled. He shifted beneath Rodimus, the rustle of his plating an audible tease. His fingers flexed on Rodimus' hips. His spike nudged a little higher, teasing the rim of his valve, the head of it brushing Rodimus' anterior node.   
  
He whimpered. He honest to Primus whimpered.   
  
“Evil,” Rodimus accused. Not even Megatron was this much of a tease.   
  
One hand left his hip and then Rodimus' spike was encased in large, warm fingers. He moaned, bucking forward into the grip.   
  
“If I were truly evil, I'd leave you here like this,” Optimus said with a long, slow pull of his hand that had Rodimus shaking and transfluid dripping from his spike. “I still could.”   
  
Rodimus groaned and licked his lips, hoping to entice Optimus to not do such a cruel thing. “No, no. You're nice. You're great. You're the most generous mech I know.” He gave his most winning smile, the same one that got him out of paperwork with Ultra Magnus and convinced Swerve to let him have free drinks for life.  
  
“That bucket of slag work on Magnus?” Optimus asked, but his hand squeezed Rodimus' spike just right and his spike nudged at Rodimus' valve, bathing the tip in Rodimus' lubricant.   
  
Optimus was obviously the Prime of self-control. Ha, ha.   
  
“Sometimes,” Rodimus panted and bucked his hips, his plating starting to clatter. Heat forced his armor to flare. “Come on, Optimus. Let me make you feel good. You know I can.”   
  
“I do. I also enjoy the sound of you begging.”   
  
Rodimus huffed a laugh. “I can beg real nice.”   
  
“I know you can.”   
  
There was a rattle and a light thump before Rodimus abruptly dropped by an inch. His valve caught Optimus' spike and it slipped in, just the studded head. The first ring of calipers in Rodimus' valve latched on to it, refusing to let go.   
  
Rodimus moaned, his helm tipping forward. His valve rippled around the spike. He pulsed in Optimus' hand, a spurt of transfluid landing somewhere on Optimus' chest no doubt.   
  
“You want me to beg? I can beg,” Rodimus insisted, his thighs trembling. “Please, Optimus. Please frag me. Please fill me with your spike and overload inside me. Fill me up so deep that you're dripping out of me for days no matter how much I clean.”   
  
Optmus' engine revved and Rodimus barely kept from smirking. He knew Optimus would like the sound of that. At least, judging by his suddenly ragged ventilations and spiking energy field.   
  
“You,” Optimus said with another rattling rustle that dropped Rodimus another glorious inch, “are a brat.”   
  
Rodimus grinned, smug, his hips rolling over all that delicious spike in his valve. “Why don't you spank me then?”   
  
“Hah. You'd deserve it.”   
  
He rocked into Optimus' hand, savoring the rhythmic squeeze of those large fingers. “You could also,” he purred, “take me hard. Right here and right now. That would show me.” His valve rippled.   
  
Optimus chuckled. “I'm sure it would.” He circled his hips, spike stirring in Rodimus' valve, dancing over all of his internal sensors. “You'd love every nanoklik of it.”   
  
Rodimus moaned. “I would.” His arms shook. His hips pushed down, frustrated and desperate. “Come _on_ , Optimus. Not even Megatron makes me wait like this.”   
  
“Is that supposed to be a challenge?”   
  
Rodimus cocked him a smirk. “I dunno. Is it working?”   
  
The chains rattled and Rodimus yelped as he dropped the rest of the way, the spike filling him all the way to his ceiling node. He whined and clenched down hard, rocking on Optimus' spike. Yes. That's what he was talking about.   
  
“I guess it did,” he panted.   
  
“You,” Optimus growled in a tone that vibrated straight to Rodimus' spark, “are incorrigible.”   
  
“That's,” Rodimus panted in return, knowing just what button to push, “what Megatron says, too.”   
  
It was all he could do to hold on to the chains as Optimus fragged him raw.

**  
-END-**


	4. Perceptor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Enticements: frag machine, overload denial, overload inhibitors

He watched; it was difficult not to do so. 

He'd distracted himself with calculations and formulas and theories and hypotheses, but in the end, he'd been drawn by the whimpers and moans as though they were a siren's call. Those, along with the steady sound of hydraulics in motion and the squeak-squeak-squeak of steady gears and well, Perceptor had given up all attempts at pretense. 

Now he watched. 

He sat back, avidly taking in the sight, watching as his captain dripped to the floor, as he squirmed, hot and desperate, atop the continuously pumping false-spike. A vibrating strip pressed right against his anterior node, providing a gentle sensation that made the pleasure coil tighter and tighter within him. 

His spike was exposed, the base encircled by an overload inhibitor. Perceptor would, as he walked by, reach out and drag his fingers from base to tip, prompting a whimper. He made it an offhand motion as though Rodimus' pleasure from it was an accident. 

Rodimus had been like this for a shift now, denied his overload. A casual sweep of Perceptor's scanners reassured him that Rodimus was in no danger of overheating. 

Not yet at least. 

For all of his flighty ways, Rodimus did know how to exhibit a sense of self-control. Even if he did plead with his optics every time they onlined. The blue had only grown brighter with his rising charge and it was a beautiful sight, to see the charge dancing out from under his plating. To watch his armor shift and flex. To see his hips dance atop the thick, false spike. It was arguably the largest Rodimus had taken. It stretched the very limits of his valve, so thick his calipers couldn't properly clench around it and were forced open, quivering in a repeated attempt to close. 

Perceptor's engine purred with approval. Arousal for him was a slow and steady curl of heat. He could spend the rest of this shift and the next one just watching, one hand palming his panel, stroking his seams. He didn't even have to expose his equipment.

He wasn't quite ready to let Rodimus overload just yet. He still had several shifts where Rodimus belonged to him. 

Perceptor pushed himself to his pedes and moved closer to Rodimus, letting his field reach out and brush against the captain's. The flush of searing need and pleasure that tapped against Perceptor's field was intoxicating. He shivered, vents pulling in a fresh burst of air. With it came the scent of Rodimus' arousal, the sweet tang of his lubricants and the ozone burst of charged circuits. 

Perceptor circled Rodimus, a little amused by the fact Rodimus watched him as far as he could. Perceptor tracked the drip of lubricant down the false-spike, watching as it pearled from Rodimus' valve. The stretched petals of the captain's valve flexed and clutched at the spike, glistening with lubricant. 

Perceptor couldn't resist the urge to touch and so he did, light sweeps of his fingers over the stretched rim. Rodimus whimpered. His fingers clutched harder at the restraints, there more for his safety than to make sure he didn't escape. 

He was such a lovely creature like this. 

Perceptor rubbed Rodimus' lubricant between his thumb and forefinger as he circled back around to Rodimus' front. His olfactory sensors dragged in the sweet scent and Perceptor allowed himself a taste, his glossa flicking over his fingers.

Rodimus made a strangled noise, oral lubricant dribbling out from around the ball gag. 

“Oh, my apologies,” Perceptor said and he held out his hand, still sticky-wet with Rodimus' own lubricant. “Did you want a taste?” 

Rodimus' engine roared. 

Perceptor grinned. 

Time to turn up the dial. 

****


	5. Sunstreaker

“Do I even want to know how this one happened?” 

Rodimus struggled to online his optics and then didn't bother. The brush of fingers along the inside of his thigh armor elaborated for him. 

He grinned and buried his face back in his folded arms. “Dunno. It depends on how much you want to know about Trailcutter's equipment.” 

Sunstreaker snorted, an offended noise, and the soft rub of his chamois replaced his fingers. “Not interested.” 

“Didn't think so.” 

Rodimus wriggled, nestling himself better on the berth, and pushed his thighs further apart at a nudge from Sunstreaker. A polishing session from Sunstreaker was worth his weight in high grade. And to be honest? His finish needed professional work all of the time. A quick wipe with his own cloths wasn't nearly enough to keep him in tip-top shape. 

Rodimus wiggled again. 

Sunstreaker's cloth swatted his aft. “Stop squirming.” 

“Make me.” 

“And mess up all my hard work?” 

Rodimus chuckled. “It's not my fault you're revving me up.” 

Sunstreaker was absolutely meticulous, and all the attention he paid to Rodimus' armor and plating and seams and substructure was driving Rodimus mad. Sunstreaker's touch was the perfect degree of firmness and Rodimus purred. Heat built behind his panel and sooner or later, he was going to start leaking. 

“Everything revs you up.” 

“Not everything,” Rodimus countered. 

The polishing cloth drifted further up, stroking along the inside of his thighs, closer and closer to his pelvic array. Rodimus spread his legs as far as he could manage and lifted his aft a fraction. Invitation extended. 

“Name one thing,” Sunstreaker said and his hand flitted across Rodimus' array, thumb pressing in the direct center of his valve cover. 

Rodimus shivered. “Um.” 

“That's what I thought.” Sunstreaker sounded far too smug. And then there was a creak, hydraulics hissing as he shifted. The berth rattled and Rodimus moaned as a wet ventilation ghosted over his valve panel. 

It popped open, the first drips of lubricant seeping free. 

“Huh,” Sunstreaker said, and his hands spread over Rodimus' aft, his thumbs pushing at the rim of his valve, spreading him open. “Was that a request?” 

Rodimus buried in his face in the berth, though it did little to muffle his whimper. “An offer,” he said.

Sunstreaker chuckled and another wet ex-vent teased the pleats of his valve, ghosting over his anterior sensor. “What do I get in return?” 

“Whatever you want.” Rodimus' hips danced. “Just stop teasing me.” 

“I haven't even begun,” Sunstreaker purred and then there was a glossa on his valve. 

Rodimus moaned, long and loud, as Sunstreaker's mouth covered his valve. His glossa traced a path around Rodimus' valve rim and then flicked over his anterior node. Sunstreaker latched on said node and sucked. 

Rodimus bucked, heat slamming into his array. His spike popped free, grounding against the berth. His thighs trembled. 

“Taste as good as you smell,” Sunstreaker murmured and he licked into Rodimus' valve, glossa curling just right to lap the ring of sensors just within the interior. 

His thumbs dug in deeper, pulling Rodimus' valve further open. Sunstreaker's olfactory sensor pressed against the rim of Rodimus' valve, as did his chin. But his glossa plunged deeper, a fluttering teasing motion that Rodimus' calipers couldn't grasp. Sunstreaker made a little hum of pleasure, his purring engine vibrating the berth. 

Rodimus gripped the mesh cover and pushed back against Sunstreaker's mouth as he rocked down onto the berth. His entire array tingled, his anterior node throbbing. 

“Streaker,” Rodimus moaned, encouragement. 

And that wonderful, talented mouth returned to his anterior node and suckled upon it with little flicks of the glossa and Rodimus lost it. He overloaded hard, valve cycling down on nothing, his spike pulsing onto the berth. His frame shook, charge spilling from beneath his armor. 

Sunstreaker purred against his array, soft licks of his glossa carrying Rodimus through the overload and the aftershocks. He pulled away with a parting kiss and crawled over Rodimus, leaving more kisses in his wake, including a solid nibble on Rodimus' spoiler, until he nuzzled the back of Rodimus' helm. 

Rodimus turned his helm, catching the scent of his own lubricant and then tasting it when Sunstreaker's mouth descended on his. Sunstreaker's hips notched between his thighs, array rubbing against Rodimus' exposed components. 

They were both going to need a wash and repaint and polish after this. Fortunately, Rodimus didn't mind one bit.

***


	6. Rung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enticements: facesitting, sticky, bdsm themes, verbal domination, oral

No chains. No cuffs. No straps. No gags.

Ah, young mechs. They always assumed that equipment was needed to restrain one’s partner. But not for the good ones. Oh, no. All they needed was a firm touch and a firmer tone.

“Now Rodimus,” Rung said, gnawing on his bottom lip in an attempt to suppress his gasp, “I know you can do a better job than that.”

Rodimus made a muffled noise, the vibrations of his vocalizer buzzing just right against the rim of Rung’s valve. Rung shivered and ground down, taking the tip of Rodimus’ glossa deeper. 

Beneath him, Rodimus trembled. His hands knotted in the berth covers, struggling to obey the order not to touch. His optics were dim, half-shuttered, his face smeared with fluids, both transfluid and lubricant. All of it Rung’s own.

He had yet to permit Rodimus to overload. And such a good pet Rodimus was. He hadn’t needed an inhibitor, a clamp, or a ring.

Rung twisted to look over his shoulder, a smile curving his lips. Rodimus’ spike seeped transfluid. It puddled on his pelvic array. The berth between his thighs was soaked with lubricant, the petals of his valve swollen with need. Intermittent bursts of charge rose up from the gaps in his plating, occasionally snapping at Rung’s aft in teasing prickles.

Rung returned his attention to Rodimus, one hand petting the captain’s helm. Soft strokes over the curve, a long pinch to the decorative spars, a sweep of his thumb over Rodimus’ forehelm.

“See?” he purred. “You have more self-control than even you give yourself credit.”

Rodimus moaned, his optics glowing a deeper, richer blue. The berth covers rustled. His frame shifted beneath Rung, a rise and fall, before he went still again. His ventilations roared and he clamped onto Rung’s anterior node, suckling it.

Rung hummed, circling his hips, pleasure rolling in deep, resonating waves through his interfacing array.

“Very nice,” he praised, petting Rodimus’ helm. “Certainly better than earlier. Keep this up and I might be inclined to give you a reward.”

Rodimus whined and worked all the harder. His glossa laved a wet path around the rim of Rung’s valve. His denta scraped a delicate pressure against Rung’s anterior node. His mouth formed hollow suction around Rung’s valve, glossa stroking a delicious sensation over the ring of nodes along the inside of his valve rim.

Rung shivered, heat blooming within him, his frame taking on a rhythm of its own. He sat upon Rodimus’ faceplate and rolled his hips, his anterior node pulsing with delight.

“You, ahhh, are doing very well,” Rung moaned. Rodimus worked all the harder when praised and then, Primus bless, his engines kicked on, vibrating the berth and Rung atop him.

Rung cried out, helm tossing back, as the vibrations traveled straight to his core. His spike sprang free, despite previous repeated overloads, and Rung wrapped his free hand around it, stroking himself with another shiver. His grip on Rodimus’ helm tightened, pushing Rodimus’ face further against his valve. Lubricant dripped freely from his valve, no doubt filling Rodimus’ mouth, and further, filling Rodimus’ tanks.

He was full of Rung right now and that made Rung shiver intensely. The thought of the captain jostling with Rung’s spill sent a tight surge of need through Rung’s internals. His spike throbbed at the thought of Rodimus’ eager valve, clenching on nothing, pushing more lubricant out onto the berth.

“D-definitely getting a reward,” Rung panted and he released his spike, preferring to save it, both hands now clutching Rodimus’ helm.

“I’m going to take your valve,” Rung said as the berth creaked beneath them both and Rodimus gave a hearty moan, slurping at Rung’s valve. “And then I’ll let you overload. But only then.”

Metal creaked. Berth padding tore. Rodimus latched onto his anterior node and sucked.

Rung overloaded with a shout, curling forward as the charge raced through him and his valve convulsed. He drenched Rodimus in his lubricant, shaking above the captain, his valve pulsing with pleasure.

Rung’s cooling fans whirled on maximum. His spike throbbed, ready to seek an overload of its own. And beneath him, Rodimus moaned and writhed, but still didn’t touch with his hands.

“G-good captain,” Rung praised shakily, petting Rodimus’ helm.

His thighs trembled. It was all he could do to lift himself up and get a good look at Rodimus, his face wet and sticky with Rung’s lubricant.

Rung managed a smile. “You’ve earned your reward.”

Rodimus grinned back up at him and licked his lips.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next time--> Cyclonus and Tailgate! :)


	7. Cyclonus and Tailgate

It was all Tailgate's idea.  
  
No one was complaining. Least of all Rodimus.  
  
Cyclonus was long and thick and perfect and he slid down Rodimus' intake with each of Tailgate's thrusts. His hands were firm on Rodimus' helm, keeping him in place, the tiny pinpricks of his claws only dragging out the pleasure.  
  
Rodimus moaned, optics flickering. His knees trembled. His hands formed fists where they were bound behind him. Tinier hands gripped his wrists, pulling him back toward the thick, oh so thick, spike plunging into his valve.  
  
What did the humans say? Big things came in small packages?  
  
They had no fragging idea.  
  
Tailgate's hips slammed against the back of Rodimus' thighs. His spike parted the folds of Rodimus' valve, raked his interior sensors, too short to hit the ceiling node but so thick. Deliciously thick. Wonderfully thick. Every sensor was rubbed. Not a drip of lubricant could escape.  
  
Rodimus moaned again.  
  
“Your glossa, Captain,” Cyclonus rumbled above him, claws pricking around the curve of Rodimus' jaw, squeezing just so. “You seem to be forgetting your task.”  
  
“Again?” Tailgate huffed. “Thought he was better than that.”  
  
“As did I.”  
  
Tailgate slammed into him. Rodimus rocked forward. Cyclonus inched further down his intake, scraping the lining. Rodimus' intake flexed around it. His tanks sloshed.  
  
“This end's more responsive,” Tailgate said. “Could easily take two.”  
  
Rodimus whined, his entire valve quivering as Tailgate's implication struck home. Yes, please. He hadn't been double-stuffed in days. He needed it.  
  
Cyclonus pushed fully into him, until Rodimus' olfactory sensor pressed against his array and he could see nothing but dark gray. “Hmm,” Cyclonus said. “I'm inclined to take your offer.”  
  
Rodimus wriggled his aft as best he could manage. _Please_.  
  
“You should.” Tailgate's tone was positively wicked. One hand left Rodimus' wrist and then he felt blunt fingers poke at the rim of his valve and slide in alongside that thick spike. “See? You'll fit. No problem.” He curved a finger, hooked a sensor node, and Rodimus spasmed.  
  
“Consider me convinced.”  
  
Cyclonus withdrew from Rodimus' mouth and Rodimus chased after his spike with a whine of displeasure. Cyclonus flicked his helm spar.  
  
“None of that now,” he said. “You had your chance.” His attention shifted to Tailgate. “How would you like to do this?”  
  
“Lay down,” Tailgate said, and he pulled out of Rodimus' valve, lubricant spilling free in his wake. “I want him on top of you.”  
  
Rodimus' engine raced. “Primus, you two,” he gasped, hanging his helm. His spike twitched and he rubbed his thighs together in a desperate attempt to give himself some stimulation.  
  
_Smack_!  
  
He startled at the sharp slap to his aft. His helm hung around, staring at Tailgate with mouth agape.  
  
One lubricant coated finger waggled at him. “Not until we say,” Tailgate said.  
  
“Your pleasure is ours to grant,” Cyclonus added, ever dignified even as he lowered himself to the floor and scooted beneath Rodimus, his spike pointing prominently toward the ceiling. “When we wish to.”  
  
“Exactly,” Tailgate said. “Because it's our turn right now.” His hands pressed down on Rodimus' aft. “Now sit.”  
  
On that long, long spike? Rodimus swallowed down a moan. This was one order he had no problem obeying.  
  
He straddled Cyclonus' hips, aimed his valve over Cyclonus' spike, and dropped down, taking all of Cyclonus in one motion. Rodimus groaned, helm throwing back, as the head of Cyclonus' spike battered against his ceiling node. He circled his hips, his engine purring with pleasure.  
  
And then hands on his shoulders threw his weight forward and only Cyclonus' hands kept him from face-planting on Cyclonus' chest. Because now Tailgate's hands were on him, fingers tracing where Rodimus' valve stretched around Cyclonus' spike.  
  
“Pretty sure I can fit,” Tailgate said, his ventilations hitched with arousal.  
  
“Do it,” Rodimus moaned.  
  
“Go slowly,” Cyclonus cautioned, his hands curving around Rodimus' thighs, pulling him wider, leaving more than enough room for Tailgate to move between them. For the blunt thickness of Tailgate's spike to nudge at Rodimus' rim.  
  
Rodimus shivered. He dropped his helm down against Cyclonus' chestplate, exventing heat.  
  
“I can take it,” Rodimus said. If he could spread his legs any further, he would.  
  
Tailgate's spike nudged harder at his valve. The plush folds yielded to the pressure, stretching to accommodate Tailgate's girth alongside Cyclonus'. Rodimus couldn't stop moaning, lubricant flushing his valve as Tailgate inched inside of him. It was all he could do to keep from wriggling.  
  
And then _finally_ , Tailgate was fully in him, his spike pulsing against Cyclonus' and against the walls of Rodimus' valve.  
  
Rodimus full on whimpered, his valve attempting to cycle down tight. Beneath him, Cyclonus let out a long ventilation, his claws tightening in their grip. And Tailgate in-vented, his field spiking with lust.  
  
“Okay,” Tailgate said. “Now I just have to... move.”  
  
“Carefully,” Cyclonus cautioned.  
  
“Hard,” Rodimus urged.  
  
Tailgate's hands flexed on Rodimus' hips. He withdrew and inched back in, a slow, steady push.  
  
Rodimus moaned and wriggled, his helm nuzzling Cyclonus' chestplate. Clawed fingers stroked him, sweeping patterns from his helm, down his back, and across his spoiler. Gentle, always gentle. Rodimus shivered.  
  
“Harder,” he begged.  
  
Cyclonus pinched the tip of his spoiler.  
  
Tailgate smacked his aft again.  
  
“Go slower, Tailgate,” Cyclonus said, and his tone was just this shade of evil. “I don't think our captain has learned his manners yet.”  
  
“Good point.” Tailgate pushed back in and held himself steady.  
  
Rodimus' valve rippled in denial and so did he, groaning with frustration.  
  
“I do like the sound of him begging,” Tailgate added.  
  
Rodimus' cry of frustration was probably heard two decks down. These two were going to be the end of him.  
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tentatively marking this as complete. I don't know if I'll ever end up adding to it or not. Thanks for reading!


End file.
